Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/962678.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Pacific_Rim_(2013)
  Relationship:
      Chuck_Hansen/Hercules_Hansen
  Character:
      Chuck_Hansen, Hercules_Hansen
  Additional Tags:
      Blushing, Gladiators, Costume_Kink, Oral_Sex, sick!Herc, waiting_for_18,
      Prompt_Fill, Father/Son_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-11 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 6351
****** Prompt fills ******
by linndechir
Summary
     A couple of shorter, unrelated Herc/Chuck fills I wrote on the
     Pacific Rim kinkmeme. I didn't want to spam AO3 with a bunch of
     ficlets, so I've decided to post them together. The prompts were:
     1) Herc likes to make Chuck blush in public.
     2) Post-war, some gossip magazine publishes an article speculating
     about whether Herc and Chuck are sleeping with each other.
     3) Herc and Chuck have to dress up as gladiators for a photoshoot.
     Costume porn ensues.
     4) Herc is sick. Chuck takes care of him and completely denies that
     he was ever nice to him once Herc gets better.
     5) Herc and Chuck both know they want each other, but Herc insists
     they wait until Chuck is 18. Chuck isn't that patient.
Notes
     I did a reverse_prompt_thread on the kinkmeme last week, and while I
     already reposted some of the longer fills here, I also wrote several
     shorter ficlets (or simply fills I didn't like as much as the ones
     already posted). I didn't want to spam AO3, so I'm reposting those
     remaining fills together. Comments are always very welcome.
     Prompt #1: Herc loves it when Chuck blushes, Chuck blames it on his
     skin tone.
***** Blushing *****
“... as an expression of our country's gratitude and admiration for every woman
and man who has devoted their life to this program and to the safety of our
nation ...”
Chuck stifled a yawn as the Prime Minister kept prating on and on, a speech
that had already lasted at least fifteen minutes and still consisted of nothing
but cheap platitudes. And for all that he was addressing the people working at
the dome (the Marshal of the Sydney Shatterdome had ordered that all personnel
attend this damn charade), the man seemed more interested in the countless
journalists and photographers he had dragged with him. Apparently it was
election time, not that Chuck gave a damn, and this suited asshole was trying
to make himself look good by showing his support for the still very popular
Jaeger program. Never mind that what they needed was more funding, not some
fucking speech about how much some rich politician who lived as far away from
the coast as possible appreciated their hard work. Chuck stared down at his
boots. He had better things to do than listen to this crap, but orders were
orders.
“God, that bloke is in love with his own voice,” someone commented to Chuck's
right, one of Striker's techies, and muffled laughter went through their group.
Chuck felt movement behind him, and then a soft, firm pressure against the
small of his back – dad's hand, and Chuck hadn't even been aware that his
father had been standing that close.
“Can't wait for him to shut up,” Herc mumbled into Chuck's ear. His voice was
so low that Chuck barely heard him, even though Herc's lips all but brushed
against his neck. “So we can get out of here and back to bed.”
“Dad!” Chuck hissed and half-heartedly tried to elbow him in the stomach, but
of course Herc easily side-stepped the hit. Sometimes being so drift-compatible
they could all but read each other's mind seriously sucked.
“What?” The old bastard sounded amused, and fuck, it just wasn't fair that
dad's voice sounded like that when he whispered, even deeper than usual, this
low rough growl that went straight to Chuck's dick. Not here. “Were you trying
to listen to the speech?”
Dad's hand was still on Chuck's back, and Chuck felt heat rise into his cheeks.
Fuck no, he was not going to blush. Not here, not in public, not in a room full
of cameras and journalists who'd love to get a good picture of Australia's
favourite pilot team. No way.
“No, but – cut it out, old man,” he growled, but he wasn't as good at being
almost inaudible as Herc, and he flinched when one of the techies gave them a
confused look. Herc smiled at her, disarmingly, and waited until she turned her
attention back to the PM before he leant in again.
“Going to spread you out on the bed when we get back, tie your hands to the
headboard with your own belt 'n' tease you until you're begging for it,” Herc
continued, his voice so quiet that Chuck felt as if those words were being
whispered right into his brain. And fuck, Chuck was getting hard.
But what was worse – he could hide a hard-on, not like anyone was staring at
his crotch right now – was that he felt himself blush. He was pretty sure his
face was on fire. He turned his head enough to growl an angry “stop it” at his
father. Dad just grinned.
“You're blushing.” He sounded obscenely pleased with himself.
Chuck swallowed hard and turned his head again, refusing to meet Herc's eyes.
Even his ears felt hot. Why was his father such an evil fucking bastard? Dad's
hand shifted a little on Chuck's back, lifting the hem of his shirt just enough
for two fingers to brush over bare skin.
“As bright red as your pretty cock after I sucked it,” Herc rumbled, and there
should be some sort of rule against him using that voice in public. Of course
Chuck was blushing. Herc Hansen and his filthy fucking mouth could probably
make a hooker blush if he set his mind to it.
“Not my fault I inherited your freaky ginger genes,” Chuck grumbled back,
defeated. He looked down at his boots again and pulled his cap a bit lower into
his face, hoping that no photographer thought to snap a picture of him right
now. He was pretty sure he looked ridiculous.
“'cos you mind my freaky ginger genes so much, right?” Dad's voice was thick
with amusement, and Chuck was grateful as hell when sudden, though somewhat
muted applause started up and kept Herc from reminding him just how much Chuck
was into his freckles (on dad's shoulders and his arms and his chest and fuck,
not the time to think about that). At least the PM had finally stopped talking.
About time. Chuck didn't think he could have taken any more of this.
He turned around and grabbed Herc's wrist to drag him through the crowd before
any journalist could come after them. Fortunately nobody would be surprised
that the two notoriously unpolitical pilots made themselves scarce before
anyone could try to get them to shake some politician's hand and catch it on
camera.
Dad wouldn't know what hit him. Chuck was going to make him pay for making him
blush in public.
***** Gossip *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt #2: Post-war, some gossip magazine publishes an article
     speculating about whether Herc and Chuck are sleeping with each
     other.
“What the fuck is this shit?”
Herc looked up from his desk as Chuck stormed into his office, holding up a
magazine in his hand. Glossy, colourful cover with big pictures. Some gossip
rag then. Herc didn't really mind the interruption, not when the alternative
was more paperwork.
“What crawled up your arse? Did some teen rag vote Raleigh hottest pilot
instead of you?” The words barely got more than a frown out of Chuck, and that
definitely worried Herc. He put down his pen and got up, stepped towards his
son. Chuck was almost shaking with anger, but worse, he looked … scared?
“Show me,” he said, automatically slipping into a more commanding tone because
he knew it calmed Chuck down. His son handed him the magazine, and Herc quickly
found the article that had caused this particular temper tantrum. It was called
“The juiciest secrets you never knew about the pilots who saved the world”. The
first two pages were about Mako and Raleigh, speculating whether they were or
weren't together, including some rather tasteless comments about how gorgeous
their children would be – and Jesus Christ, Herc had really hoped that this
whole celebrity bullshit would finally die down now that they weren't needed
anymore – but the next double page was about them.
Several photos, taken from far away, of Herc and Chuck by the beach back in
Australia. They were over half a year old, Herc still remembered that day, so
apparently some halfway smart editor had insisted on holding them back until
the world wasn't ending. There was nothing really explicit on them – they were
far too careful to kiss in public – but Herc had to admit that it looked bad.
How close they were standing to each other, the way Chuck leant in to whisper
something into his ear, Herc's hand on Chuck's hip straying almost down to his
arse. It wasn't how most fathers touched their adult sons. The article itself
could have probably been worse – some of the things people used to write about
him and Scott had been downright filthy – probably because accusing a man of
sleeping with his son without any actual proof was a bit worse than accusing
him of sleeping with his brother. But there were enough hints and innuendos in
the article: questions about whether raising a child to be a pilot before he
was even legal wasn't a form of child abuse, speculations about whether the
“close and intimate bond between Jaeger pilots” wasn't “inappropriate” for a
father and a son, seemingly innocent remarks about how Chuck had never had a
girlfriend and Herc had never remarried. They didn't have to write “is Herc
Hansen screwing his son?” when they could just include close-ups of Herc's hand
on Chuck's hip.
Herc swallowed hard. This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen. Back in the
day the PPDC's PR department had managed to keep a lid on articles like that,
and most magazines had the decency not to write anything too scandalous about
related pilot teams. But their PR department was just about non-existent these
days, and with the kaiju threat hopefully averted once and for all, people were
reverting to old habits. Everybody liked scandals, after all.
“They can't write that sort of thing,” Chuck said angrily when Herc finished
reading. He had grown up being a celebrity, this wasn't the first time someone
wrote things about him that he didn't like. But it was the first time a printed
magazine implied he was sleeping with his father.
The fact that it was true only made it so much worse.
“We saved these people,” Chuck said when Herc didn't reply. “They don't get to
say that sort of thing about us.” He looked down, added more quietly, “About
you.”
Despite everything Herc couldn't help but smile a little at that. It was the
sort of thing that Chuck wouldn't have said only a few weeks ago, before he had
almost died. He lifted his hand to squeeze the back of Chuck's neck lightly.
“I'll talk to one of the lawyers. See what can be done about this.”
“That won't unprint this piece of shit.”
“No, but maybe we can make sure the next idiot who thinks this is a great story
will think twice about running it.” He pulled Chuck closer, leant his forehead
against his son's. “Come on, it's not so bad. Anyway, nobody believes that sort
of thing. Nobody who matters. These magazines make up half the shit they print,
everyone knows that.”
Chuck didn't seem convinced – and Herc couldn't blame him; they had both had
unpleasants run-ins with crazy fans or obnoxious journalists over the years –
but Herc knew that Chuck needed to cool his temper before he ended up saying
something stupid at the wrong time.
“I'll take care of it, a'right? You wanna stay in my office for a bit?”
“You don't have to babysit me, dad, I'm not going to drown that reporter bitch
in the harbour. Even though she fucking deserves it.”
Herc sighed as Chuck left his office again, not any less angry than before, but
looking slightly less homicidal. Herc glanced down at the magazine again – at
least it was some unknown little rag, not one of the more popular ones – and
prayed that some movie star would either cheat on his girlfriend or adopt a
cute little kid soon, anything to distract the world from asking too many
questions about how the remaining Jaeger pilots spent their time in a kaiju-
free world.
***** Gladiators *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt #3: "gladiator!Herc and slave!whore!Chuck Spartacus AU? Or if
     you're not comfortable with the historical stuff, then maybe some
     roleplay?"
     Note: I tried to write this as a historical AU, but Chuck being
     anything but Herc's gladiator buddy made me incredibly sad. Basically
     I thought that Chuck used to be Herc's partner in the arena, but he
     got injured and his owner wanted to get rid of him, but Herc begged
     him to let him keep Chuck and because Herc was a pretty valuable
     gladiator who never made any fuss and just won his fights his owner
     was like “yeah okay, keep him if you like”, so Herc did, but Chuck
     was basically super depressed at going from Herc's badass partner to
     Herc's bedwarmer who's only alive because Herc felt sorry for him,
     and that was just way too sad for me to write it. So instead I went
     with some canon-verse costume porn.
Herc Hansen had worn an embarrassing number of ridiculous costumes over the
years. Between photoshoots, magazines, commercials and stuff like the yearly
Jaeger pilot calendar, he felt as if every damn photographer in the world had
already dressed him up one way or another for a few pictures. It had been like
that with Scott, and now with Chuck. He had always been popular – Australia's
big national hero who couldn't leave the Sydney Shatterdome without being
surrounded by fans, and even in other countries people liked him well enough.
And as much as Herc hated this whole pilot cult, his orders were to go along
with it. After all, the proceeds from those articles and ad campaigns went
directly to the programme.
Still, this photoshoot marked a new low in his opinion. Suits and tuxedos and
biker leather were one thing. Making him and Chuck dress up as gladiators …
Herc just felt like an idiot. He breathed a sigh of relief when the whole thing
was finally over and done with and he got back to the dressing room, with a
very friendly young man (a little too friendly maybe, but there was really no
polite way of telling someone to stop feeling up your upper arms) helping him
to untie the straps of his leather bracers. God, Striker's crew was never going
to let him live it down once they'd see those pictures.
There was no knock before the door opened and Chuck stormed in, already back in
his usual cargo trousers and t-shirt, since he'd been apparently a lot more
efficient at getting out of his costume. He was smiling – Chuck enjoyed this
shit way too much for Herc's taste – but that smile turned into a frown when he
saw someone else's hands on Herc's shoulders.
“I can take it from here,” he growled, and when that poor young man made the
mistake of looking too disappointed Chuck made an almost menacing step closer.
That did the trick; the man glanced at Herc for confirmation, mumbled an excuse
and then hurried out of the room.
“You didn't need to be an arsehole,” Herc said, but part of him was pleased.
Flattered. Chuck being jealous did that to him.
“He was feeling you up,” Chuck complained and stepped closer, ran his hands
over Herc's shoulders as if to reaffirm that he was his.
“What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to see you before you took that off.” Chuck ran a finger over the broad
leather strap that spanned over Herc's chest. “Because I know I'm not going to
get you to wear something like that ever again.”
“So? I look ridiculous.”
“Stop fishing for compliments, old man.” And Chuck leant in to brush his lips
over Herc's scruff, groaned in protest when Herc grabbed his shoulders and
shove him away.
“No way, kid, not here.”
“Come oooon. Nobody will know. And we'll make it quick.”
And fuck, Herc had never been good at resisting Chuck, not when Chuck did that
little half-pout and licked his lips, not when he flexed his arms, not when he
looked at Herc like he wanted to eat him alive and that look brought back
memories from the drift, memories of how Chuck felt when he touched Herc, and
Herc couldn't think of a bigger turn-on than knowing exactly just how much
Chuck wanted him.
Herc glanced around, as if he actually had to make sure they were alone, then
gave a brief nod.
“All right. But … I'm pretty sure gladiators didn't screw cheeky 21st century
kids in tshirts.” If he was going along with Chuck's stupid little fantasy,
he'd at least get something out of it himself. Chuck grinned enthusiastically.
“No? Who did they screw?” he asked, his voice muffled as he pulled the shirt
over his head.
“They were kinda like celebrities, no?” Herc had no idea if that was actually
true, it was just what that idiot photographer had told them before the shoot,
about how Jaeger pilots were modern gladiators or some bullshit like that. As
if they killed kaiju for the entertainment of the masses rather than to save
people's lives. “Didn't they have, like, bed slaves or something like that?”
Herc hadn't seen Chuck blush that much in months. He went from a slight,
excited flush to being bright red in half a second, and Herc almost worried
that he had said something wrong, that Chuck would be absolutely outraged at
the idea, but his boy kept grinning.
“You're just angling for a blowjob,” he laughed, but he still proceeded to get
rid of the rest of his clothes, that strong young body that had been half on
display all morning, but this was just for Herc, not for the cameras, not for
the public. So Herc grabbed Chuck's hair roughly and twisted a little, lowered
his voice to a growl, “I'm not angling, I'm telling.”
His son visibly had to bite back a cocky reply, but in the end he played along,
naked and vulnerable and sinking down to his knees when Herc pushed him. Chuck
ran his fingertips over the leather straps on Herc's calves, up to his bare
knees and to his thighs, and Herc just focused on that feeling instead of
thinking too much about how ridiculous he felt in this outfit. And the one good
thing that could be said about this skirt of studded leather straps they had
made him wear was that it really wasn't in the way much when Chuck's fingers
ghosted up to his thighs, quickly followed by Chuck's lips pressing kisses to
Herc's knee.
“You deserve it after today,” Chuck purred against his skin, and Herc was
actually pretty damn impressed that his cocky son managed to make his voice
sound so soft, so submissive. He felt himself get hard, and fuck, he'd wear
ridiculous clothes like this more often if it got him that, a naked Chuck
crawling a little closer, kissing his way up Herc's thighs and panting against
Herc's skin. “Big strong hero like you.”
“Shut up,” Herc growled and tightened his hand in Chuck's hair, going along
with the game, and he had read Chuck right, his boy just moaned at that, moaned
like a two-bit whore and that really shouldn't turn Herc on so much. Still, the
only thing better than that was to shut Chuck up with his cock, and after that
Herc really didn't waste a thought anymore on what he was wearing, just focused
on Chuck's hot mouth on his dick, and his boy was so good at this on the rare
occasions that he just let Herc fuck his throat instead of being a giant tease
about it. And damn if the kid wasn't jerking off as if he simply couldn't wait
to get off; he actually came before Herc, moaning around his dick as he came
all over his naked thighs.
Afterwards Chuck stayed on his knees until Herc pulled him up by his hair,
pulled him into a rough, almost brutal kiss, and Chuck's mouth was so soft for
once, so pliant, giving in instead of pushing back, and Herc thought he could
get used to this. To Chuck's hands curling into every leather strap he could
find, moaning against his mouth and whimpering softly every time Herc bit him.
He had to force himself to break the kiss eventually. A moment passed in
slightly embarrassed silence before they both just grinned at each other.
“Told you this would be a good idea,” Chuck said, all cocky arrogance again.
Herc rolled his eyes, not wanting to admit that his son had been right.
“Clean up and then help me with this. They'll start wondering if we're all
right soon if we don't hurry up.”
“You sure you don't want them to ask if you can keep the costume?” Chuck asked
with faked innocence. Herc decided to ignore him.
On his way out of the dressing room five minutes later his stomach lurched when
he realised that they hadn't locked the door. He really, really needed to stop
thinking with his dick when Chuck was around.
***** Tea and blankets *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt #4: Herc is sick. Chuck takes care of him and completely
     denies that he was ever nice to him once Herc gets better.
Herc woke up wishing he hadn't. The only reason he didn't think he was dying
was because he was pretty sure you had to be damn alive to feel that bad. He
couldn't remember how he had ended up in bed, covered in too many blankets and
sweating, feverish and hot, and at the same time his bones felt as if they were
made from ice, his limbs aching and his head pounding and his mouth tasting
like he had puked up everything he had ever eaten. He groaned and tried to
move, and then he realised that he wasn't alone.
“Sshh,” a familiar voice mumbled, and there was a cold washcloth on his face,
gently dabbing off the sweat, washing his face and the back of his neck. Herc
didn't try to open his eyes. He had been sneezing for half a week, he
remembered now, ever since his and Chuck's little trip to the countryside on a
rare day off had been interrupted by an ice-cold deluge that had soaked them
both thoroughly before they had made it back to the car.
It took him a few moments to realise that Chuck was gone, because the cold
washcloth was still resting on his forehead. He wasn't sure how much time
passed before his son come back and sat down on the bed again.
“You awake, dad?” Herc didn't want to deal with this now. Didn't want to hear
that he was getting old, that he shouldn't get sick from a bit of rain, didn't
want to look at his son only to see anger and resentment and a thousand other
emotions he never wanted to see in those eyes. He was tired and he wanted to
sleep. Or die. Dying sounded like a good option, but he'd take sleep in a
pinch.
“Hgnh,” he made.
“Come here.” Herc felt as if his head was wrapped in cotton wool, and there was
really no other explanation why Chuck's voice sounded so soft, so gentle. His
son helped him sit up, one strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, and then
there was a cup of hot tea in front of his nose. Herc hated tea. He tried to
express that sentiment with another inarticulate noise.
“You have to drink something, you're dehydrated,” Chuck said, sounding less
exasperated than Herc would have expected. And he didn't have the strength to
fight back, so he sipped the hot tea resentfully. He was probably imagining
things, because Chuck was stroking his hair and that couldn't be right. He
dimly realised that Chuck slipped a pill in with the last swallow of tea, but
he was fairly sure that his son wasn't going to poison him. Chuck was more the
“beat somebody to death with his bare hands” than the “poison you in your
sleep” type.
Herc was still aching all over when he sank back onto the bed, but even so he
couldn't keep his eyes open. The last thing he still noticed before he passed
out again was Chuck pulling the blankets back over his shoulders, tucking him
in like a child and pressing a fresh cold washcloth against his forehead.
* * *
The next time he woke up, he felt considerably better. He was still sweating
profusely, but now only because of the numerous blankets; he was fairly sure
his fever had broken. He still had trouble breathing through his nose and his
stomach was empty and rumbling, but other than that he felt fine. Well, that
and the fact that he smelt like two days of cold sweat.
He sat up and saw his son curled up on the too small couch, with Max taking up
almost as much room as Chuck himself. Herc groaned and stumbled out of bed,
waking Max and – as a direct consequence – Chuck. His boy was up right away and
stepped closer as if to steady him, but he stopped mid-stride when he seemed to
realise that Herc was standing upright without too much trouble.
“Back from the dead?” Chuck said with a grin, his voice hoarse from sleep. Max
was licking Herc's hand excitedly, and Herc scratched the dog behind the ear.
“Not sure.” His throat felt as if someone had gone to town on it with
sandpaper. “Flu?”
“Yeah. You passed out like a lady in one of those costume films. Almost gave
the Marshal a heart attack.” Chuck grinned, but there was a hint of concern in
his eyes.
“I'll believe that when I hear it from him.” Herc crouched, still not quite
trusting his legs, to pet Max. The dog yelped happily and nuzzled his hand.
“Thanks,” Herc said more in his direction than in Chuck's.
“For what?”
“You know.” Herc straightened up again, nodded towards the bed. The blankets –
more than Herc had ever had in his quarters – and the cups and the washcloths
lying on the floor. Chuck shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, didn't
meet Herc's eyes. He mumbled something about fever dreams and focused his
attention on Max to scratch the dog's chin.
“Go take a shower, old man, you stink,” Chuck said finally, as if it had taken
him a minute to think of something to say, and Herc laughed a little. Of course
Chuck only stayed nice while Herc was too out of it to appreciate it properly.
He took off towards the bathroom, but just as he wanted to close the door Chuck
hurried after him and held it.
“Leave it open,” he said and shrugged awkwardly. “Just in case you pass out
again and break your neck or something.”
“How is an open door going to help you if I break my neck?” Herc asked with a
grin. Chuck rolled his eyes.
“Don't even think about it. I'm not coming with you, you're filthy.” But he did
stay by the door as Herc stripped out of his sweat-soaked clothes, and whenever
he thought Herc wasn't looking the concern in his eyes became obvious enough.
It almost made up for feeling like he was slowly dying for about two days.
Almost.
***** Waiting *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt #5: Herc and Chuck both know they want each other, but Herc
     insists they wait until Chuck is 18. Chuck isn't that patient.
Chuck walked out of the bathroom with nothing on but a towel wrapped around his
hips, a towel he apparently hadn't really used for its intended purpose because
his entire body was still glistening wet, waterdrops running over his chest,
his shoulders, his thighs. Wonderful. It was going to be one of those nights.
“Put on some damn clothes, you'll catch a cold running around like that,” Herc
grumbled and forced his attention back on the report he was reading. If his
words made him sound like a fretting grandfather, all the better, maybe that
would bring Chuck to his senses. Either way Herc was not going to let his boy
goad him into almost doing something stupid. They'd had too many close calls
already.
“I'm not cold.” Chuck came closer, until Herc found himself facing his son's
crotch. He couldn't help but notice that Chuck's dick was hard under the towel;
damn boy hadn't even jerked off in the shower. He'd been planning this. Bad
enough that he was a brat, no, he had to be a stubborn brat.
“Leave it alone, Chuck,” Herc sighed, not bothering to play dumb. “It's not
going to happen.”
“Dad, for fuck's sake, I'm –”
“Not eighteen yet.” Herc looked up and regretted it immediately. A wave of pure
want rolled over him, a primal need to touch and be touched that was only
intensified by how much he loved his boy – his stubborn, ungrateful, obsessive
boy. Denying himself for far too long wasn't making things easier either. This
– this being the fact that he wanted to fuck his own son senseless and that
Chuck was every bit as enthusiastic about the idea as Herc – this had started
almost since their first drift. A vague attraction at first, but it hadn't
taken long for it to grow into an unignorable lust, and every drift had only
made it worse until Herc could barely even think about anyone else when he
jerked off.
They had spent months in angry, desperate denial, hoping that those thoughts
would simply go away if they just ignored them for long enough, but it was
impossible to hide anything that big from each other in the drift. Eventually
Chuck, with all his teenage hormones, had simply snapped and kissed Herc,
saying that there was no reason for them not to do something they clearly both
wanted.
No reason, other than the fact that Chuck had been 16. Even if they weren't
related, Herc would never sleep with a 16-year-old teenager who couldn't
possibly know what he wanted. There was a reason there were laws about that
kind of thing. So he had stopped Chuck and told him they'd have to wait until
he was 18 at least – and he had hoped, quietly, that his son would change his
mind until then. That he'd get over whatever madness made him want his own
father.
He hadn't. And while he sometimes behaved himself for weeks at a time, there
were other days when he did all he could to get Herc to snap and give in. So
far Herc had always resisted him – just kissed him back sometimes, kissed him
and held him and torn himself away before he could do more than that – but
every time it happened it was more difficult to resist.
Herc got up and shouldered his way past Chuck, turning his back on him so he
wouldn't have to look at him. God, why did Chuck have to be so damn pretty
already? Why couldn't he be a lanky, pimply, skinny little thing like Herc had
been at that age?
“We had an agreement, Chuck,” he said. His son snorted.
“No. You made a decision without asking me for my opinion. I never agreed to
anything.” He stepped in front of Herc again, his broad body crowding Herc's
against the wall. “But I waited, didn't I? I've waited for almost a whole damn
year already, just because you were being difficult. Didn't I give you enough
time to get over yourself? I don't want to wait anymore, dad.”
He was so close that Herc could almost kiss him. The few times Chuck had kissed
him over the last year, when Herc hadn't pushed him away immediately, were
still burnt into his memory. Chuck's mouth was so soft, so hot, so full of
promise. Herc wanted – He cut that line of thought short. Those fantasies were
for furtive moments alone in the dark of his bunk, with his face buried in the
pillow so Chuck wouldn't hear his father moan his name.
Instead of kissing him Herc grabbed Chuck by the shoulders and pushed him back.
Made sure to meet his eyes.
“You want me to get over myself? Do you even know what this does to me, Chuck?
Wanting you? Wanting my son, my own teenage son? Can you even imagine what –”
“Oh, cut it out, dad!” Chuck interrupted him. “Do you know what it does to me,
going out there in Striker, knowing that I might die and that I'd die without
ever knowing what this would have felt like?” He glared at Herc. “You have no
damn problem taking your teenage son into combat with you, I'm tough enough for
that. But when it's something that would make me feel good, something I want
just for myself and not for anyone else in the world, then I'm suddenly a frail
little boy who can't make his own decisions.”
And Herc knew that it was an odd double standard, that his behaviour didn't
really make any sense, not when Chuck put it like that. But Herc needed to
cling to something, he had to keep some sort of moral code if he didn't want
his guilt and his shame to eat him up completely.
“It's only a few more months, Chuck,” he sighed. “And then we can do anything
you want.”
“I want it now.” Chuck's voice dropped lower, he pushed closer again until his
body was almost flush against Herc's. Soft lips ghosted over Herc's cheek, as
sweet and warm as the constant caress of Chuck's mind in Herc's, an endless
ghost-drift that kept them connected, and Herc wanted nothing more than to
latch onto that touch, to pull Chuck in and never let him go. He wanted him so
much it was almost physically painful, and Herc had never known how to deal
with pain but by lashing out.
So he tightened his grip on Chuck's shoulders and turned them around brutally
until Chuck's back hit the wall. His boy groaned when the air was knocked out
of his lungs, but there was no fear in his eyes, only hopeful anticipation.
“I am not going to fuck my 17-year-old son,” Herc growled firmly, but he knew
that saying it out loud would not really deter either of them. They had long
moved past the time when a reminder of just how wrong this was would have put
them off.
“Okay,” Chuck conceded softly. He tilted his head back, bared his throat. Herc
wanted to cover him in purple marks for the whole world to see, to scare off
any damn bastard Chuck flirted with to get a rise out of Herc. Chuck was his.
“But give me something, dad,” Chuck whispered. He didn't sound demanding now,
just pleading, desperate, like he simply didn't know what to do anymore to make
this constant feeling of want stop. “Anything.”
Fuck, Herc was going to regret this.
Without giving him any sort of warning he turned Chuck around roughly to make
him face the wall.
“Hands against the wall,” he ordered. “You move, you turn around, you touch me,
this ends. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Chuck panted, and dammit, he never called Herc that. He obeyed,
leant against the wall and spread his legs a little, and Herc was already
regretting this. The sight of Chuck's broad, freckled shoulders, his back
muscles playing under damp skin, the way Chuck was bowing his head in
submission. Herc swallowed hard and yanked the towel down, forced himself to
keep his eyes on Chuck's shoulders. He wasn't going to look down at Chuck's
arse, at the way his boy was canting his hips and arching his back as if
begging for a fuck.
“I told you not to move,” Herc warned him, and Chuck stilled immediately, his
muscles quivering with tension. Herc took a deep breath, ignored the voice in
his head telling him that this was an absolutely terrible idea, and reached
around to wrap his fingers around Chuck's cock. His son was hard already, long
and thick and hot in Herc's hand. A man's cock, not a boy's. Hell, the way
Chuck's dick felt in his hand Herc was fairly sure that Chuck was actually
thicker than him.
Chuck moaned loudly when Herc gave his cock a first rough jerk, tried to muffle
the sounds he was making against his upper arm. Herc stepped close enough to
whisper into his ear, even though that meant pressing his crotch against
Chuck's arse, and damn, that bit of friction alone was making his head swim.
“Wanna hear you,” Herc mumbled. He brought his other hand to Chuck's hip to
keep him still, it wouldn't do to have Chuck rutting back against him. There
was only so much Herc could take. “Wanna hear every moan and gasp from your
pretty mouth.”
“I'm not pre–” Chuck started, but he gave up on talking when Herc's hand moved
again. And dammit, his boy was so wet, pre-come dripping from his cock, easing
the initially dry friction until Herc's hand slid easily over Chuck's cock.
Herc wanted to look, wanted to see what he was doing, wanted to see the look on
Chuck's face, but instead he kept his eyes fixed on Chuck's shoulders. Chuck
moaned so prettily, he didn't even curse or complain or tell Herc to hurry up,
no, he just whimpered and gasped wordlessly. Herc wondered what Chuck would
sound like with a mouth on his cock, or on his balls, or on that pretty arse.
What he'd sound like when Herc would finger him open and make him come before
fucking him, maybe right against this very wall.
He only realised a moment later that he had been rubbing his clothed dick
against Chuck's arse, and he quickly forced himself to step back just enough to
bring a little distance between them. Focused on nothing but getting his boy
off, not teasing, not drawing this out, just quick efficient strokes, knowing
that the longer this lasted, the worse he'd make things for himself. He still
felt a pang of regret when Chuck came far too soon, come spilling over Herc's
hand, panting and moaning and this time a single word left his lips, a soft,
gasped “dad”.
Herc wanted to keep touching him, petting Chuck's dick until it became too
sensitive and Chuck would push him away. He wanted to lick him clean and bring
him to bed and teach him every single thing he knew about blowing someone's
mind. He wanted to wear them both out until all they could do was kiss each
other before they'd fall asleep in each other's arms.
He forced himself to let go. Stepped away quickly while Chuck was still leaning
against the wall and trying to catch his breath. Herc picked up the towel from
the floor to wipe his hand clean, then threw it over Chuck's shoulder. His boy
turned his head to look at him with wide eyes, and damn if he didn't look like
he had just seen the face of God.
“Dad,” he said softly, more tenderly than Herc had ever heard him say it, but
he wasn't going to let that sway him. He didn't look at his son. He should
probably tell Chuck that this had been a one-time thing, that nothing else was
going to happen until his 18th birthday, but he wasn't sure he could stay in
one room with Chuck for another minute without touching him. He took off to the
bathroom without another word, didn't stop when Chuck added, “What about you?”
Herc let out a groan when he locked the bathroom door behind himself, his other
hand already unzipping his trousers. He still had traces of Chuck's come on his
hand, he realised as he started to stroke his own dick, and that thought alone
made him shiver all over.
A few more months, he thought to himself, eyes closed, picturing Chuck crowding
him against the bathroom door, Chuck kissing him breathless, Chuck's hand on
his cock, Chuck's lips wrapped around it, and that pushed him over the edge.
He'd just have to hope he'd somehow survive those months without either dying
from sexual frustration or eventually giving in once Chuck decided that he
wanted more than the little taste he had had tonight.
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